“Expecting something else?” Hardwick said.
The man whipped around, surprised. “What are you doing here?” he said.
Hardwick smiled. “It’s such a big day for you, Anthony. I didn’t think you’d want to spend it alone.”
“You will call me Mr. Rose,” he said, his tone as arrogant as his driving habits had been. Anthony was his given first name. No one ever called him that. “And you’re right. It is a big day. We should see the results in a few minutes.”
Hardwick stood up. “I’m not talking about your little plan in Morro Bay. That, I’m fairly confident, isn’t going to come off as you expect.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The LP has always had a plan, Anthony. And what we do in support of that plan is carefully worked out years ahead of time.”
“I’m well aware of the plan, James. That’s exactly what I’ve been working toward. What I will have accomplished this morning will bring us just that much closer. This was all worked out months ago. The council approved my plan and has funded the operation. So whatever it is you’re trying to tell me is just more of your bullshit.”
“The council. Right.” Hardwick smiled. “Who do you think sent me?”
Mr. Rose’s eyes narrowed as his lips pressed together in obvious anger. “Enough. You’ve overstepped your bounds. I’m sure the council has no idea that you’re here.” He turned and started scanning the room, looking for something.
“Your phone’s on the wet bar, if that’s what you’re searching for.”
This only seemed to make Mr. Rose angrier. He marched over to the bar, one hand holding up his towel, the other clenching and flexing as if it was the only thing keeping him from flying into a rage. After picking up the phone, he punched a couple of buttons, then raised it to his ear. Hardwick watched as Mr. Rose held it in place for several seconds, then moved it out so he could see the screen. His eyes grew wide as he read the message Hardwick knew would be there.
“Oh, I totally forgot,” Hardwick said, then looked at his watch. “The council had your phone disconnected four minutes ago. Here. Use mine.” He pulled out his own phone and held it out to Mr. Rose.
Mr. Rose didn’t move. “I don’t need to make a call to know that you’re lying.”
“Then let me do it for you.”
Hardwick activated the speakerphone function, then dialed.
There were two rings, then, “Hello?”
“Mr. Kidd, please,” Hardwick said.
Mr. Rose shot him a look.
“One moment,” the voice on the phone said.
“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Hardwick said to Mr. Rose. “Mr. Kidd’s the chairman now.”
Movement on the other end of the line, then the hollow sound of another speakerphone being activated.
“James?” a voice said.
“Yes, Mr. Kidd,” Hardwick said. “I’m here with Mr. Rose right now.”
“Ah. And you’ve delivered our message?”
“I’m in the process.”
“This is ridiculous,” Mr. Rose blurted out. He took several steps toward Hardwick and the phone. “Where is Chairman Vine?”
“Is that you, Mr. Rose?” Mr. Kidd said.
“Where’s the Chairman?”
“I’m the Chairman. If you’re looking for Mr. Vine, he retired.”
“That’s bullshit!” Mr. Rose yelled.
“It is not… bullshit,” a new voice said over the phone. It was older, and its staccato delivery was unmistakably that of the former chairman. “I turned over power to Chairman Kidd ten weeks ago. So, Mr. Rose, you are talking to the Chairman.”
“Ten weeks?” Mr. Rose said to himself. He looked at the phone as if he could see Mr. Kidd on the other end. “But my operation, you continued to fund it.”
“It was useful to us for a time,” Chairman Kidd said. “We do owe you a thanks. Without your operation, we would have never been able to dispose of some of our more ardent enemies. The DDNI will no longer be hunting us, and as of this morning the Office has ceased operations. Those are both because of you.”
“But why try to stop what I was doing? I don’t understand. It served the plan.”
“Actually,” Hardwick said, “it was decided that it would serve the plan better if your operation were to fail spectacularly. The result will be just as good as if you had succeeded in killing the targets. In fact, probably better.”
“It’s all in service of the plan, Mr. Rose,” Chairman Kidd said. “I think there is only one little matter left to take care of.”
“Wh … what?” Mr. Rose asked.
“Mr. Hardwick will fill you in.” Almost before the last word was spoken, the call was disconnected.
Hardwick glanced at the television. There was a handheld shot from a street where dozens of people were running. In the background, smoke was rising in the air. The graphic at the bottom of the screen identified the location as Morro Bay, California. In the text scroll beneath that, this information:
SCHOOL VISIT BY G8 SPOUSES DISRUPTED PRIOR TO THEIR ARRIVAL ON
THE CAMPUS • NO CASUALTIES YET REPORTED • CHAOS IN STREETS IN
MORRO BAY • SCHOOL VISIT BY G8 SPOUSES…
Hardwick looked over at Mr. Rose and saw that the old man was watching the television, too.
“I don’t think we could have asked for a better result,” Hardwick said, smiling.
Mr. Rose looked at Hardwick, then at the useless phone he seemed to realize he was still holding. When he threw it, it wasn’t a surprise. Hardwick was already moving toward him, the phone missing him by several inches and slamming harmlessly into the cushion on the couch.
Mr. Rose, though, displayed a surprising amount of speed. He was already moving toward the bedroom the moment the phone left his hand. Hardwick sprinted after him, getting to the door just before it closed all the way.
He shoved it open, knocking the older man back. Mr. Rose had one hand on the bed to keep from falling.
“The council knew you wouldn’t take this well,” Hardwick said. “And they just can’t afford having you cause them any other problems. I’m sure you understand.”
Hardwick pulled his Beretta out from the holster under his jacket.
“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” Mr. Rose said.
From a pocket in the jacket, Hardwick methodically removed his suppressor and attached it to the barrel of the gun. When he was done, he pointed it at Mr. Rose.
“Now everything is nice and clean. This operation of yours will be attributed to a small terrorist cell working out of Eastern Europe. G8 summit. Economic terrorists. Wouldn’t be the first time. You, of course, will be branded the ringleader. The cool thing, though, is that in the process of carrying out your little terrorist plot, you were forced to kill several members of the U.S. government who just happened to be enemies of the LP. In fact, turns out they were the ones who wanted to take us down the most. Lucky us.”
Mr. Rose said nothing.
“And the best part?” Hardwick said. “Those who aren’t dead think we were trying to help them stop your threat. It puts us in a most… useful position. Again, thanks.”
“Fuck off,” Mr. Rose said, then dove toward the pile of clothes next to the bathroom.
Hardwick had been expecting the move. His first bullet caught Mr. Rose in the left shoulder, the second in the right hip. The man fell to the floor several feet short of the clothes pile that almost, but not quite, covered up the pistol that was beneath it.
Hardwick knelt down beside the old man. Mr. Rose drew in several rapid breaths, but he showed no fear, only anger.
“Don’t worry,” Hardwick said. “Your body won’t be here for long. I planted enough evidence to lead investigators to this room before the end of the day. Which means I should probably be on my way.”
“Someday this will happen to you,” Mr. Rose said, teeth clenched. “Someday they won’t want you anymore.”
“I don’t doubt it. But not today,” Hardwick said, then stood back up. “Today, you’re the one not wanted.”
He pulled the trigger one last time.
Once he was back in his car and on the road, he called the Chairman.
“It’s done,” he said.
“Excellent.”
“Have you heard anything concrete about Morro Bay?” Hardwick asked.
“Two car bombs went off, but nothing else. It looks like your friend Quinn was able to minimize the damage. I still wonder if maybe we should have let the operation succeed.”
“No,” Hardwick said. “This was perfect. If the targets had been eliminated, the focus would have been on finding the people behind the attack and exacting revenge. But now the focus will be more on prevention, more tightening of security. Paranoia, that’s the key.”
“You’re right, of course,” Chairman Kidd said. “Excellent work, James. I believe it’s now time for that vacation.”
“Yes,” Hardwick said. “It is.”
He smiled to himself. Nothing was better than a job well done.
CHAPTER
43
MARION CAME RUNNING OUT OF THE MOTEL THE minute she saw them pull into the parking lot. She’d been watching the news for over an hour, trying to see if she could spot Iris in the group of children being ferried away from the school. Reportedly they were taking them to a nearby medical facility as a precaution.
The reporter had said none of the children had been harmed. Marion had let out a prayer of thanks when she heard that. But where was Iris?
Quinn jumped out of the car before they were even parked.
“Back in the room,” he said to Marion.
“Why?” she asked.
He walked quickly up to her. “Because we don’t want to draw any attention.”
“Iris?” she asked.
“Inside, okay?”
As she turned to do as he said, she heard a familiar voice behind her call out.
“Goah.”
She whipped around. Nate had just emerged out of the back seat. In his arms was the one thing Marion wanted to see more than anything.
“Goah,” the girl said, smiling at Marion.
Marion rushed over and took Iris in her arms.
“Goah,” Iris repeated.
“Yes,” Marion said. “Goah. Goah.”
In Marion’s room, Quinn gave her an edited version of what had happened. There was no reason to let her know how close the girl had come to dying. If Marion sensed he was holding back, she didn’t say anything. She seemed content just to hold Iris and kiss the girl’s cheeks.
“We need to get her to a doctor,” Quinn told her.
“What? Why?” Marion said, scanning the child. “Is she hurt?”
“The implant,” Quinn said. “She needs to get it out.”
Marion touched the spot where the implant had been inserted. “Right. Of course.”
“I know a place in L.A. Very discreet. And once they’re done, we’ll get you home.”
A dark look crossed Marion’s face.
“Don’t worry,” Orlando said. “We’ll make sure the papers you have for her will hold up. Iris will be yours now and always.”
“It’s not that,” Marion said. “I’m just not sure where home is now.”
In the wake of the Morro Bay attack, and the subsequent washing up on a beach in Virginia of another high-ranking CIA official—this one named Chercover—the Office was disbanded. But as much as the FBI wanted to pin the bombings and murders on the negligence of Peter and his people, they couldn’t.
Quinn didn’t want to care. He was going to be through with the Office after this job anyway. Still, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of loss. No matter how annoying Peter was, the Office had, for the most part, done some decent work.
Now there was a void waiting to be filled.
The last conversation he’d had with Peter had been short.
“I’ll make sure your money is transferred before we close our accounts,” Peter had said.
Quinn frowned. It didn’t feel right to be paid to stop the murders of dozens of children, let alone the others who would have died at the school. But he realized there was something he could do with his fee. Marion. He’d deposit it in her account. Of course, the amount would shock her, so he’d have to send her a note first so that she didn’t do something stupid like tell the bank they’d made a mistake.
“I also thought you’d like to know about the children who’d been …” Peter seemed to be unable to finish the sentence.
“What about them?” Quinn asked.
“All but one survived. The doctors say he had a heart condition that just couldn’t handle the stress of being kept drugged for so long, followed by all the excitement at the school.”
“He?”
“A little boy. That’s all I know.”
Quinn paused as an image of the boy on the gurney squeezing his hand pushed everything else aside. Though he didn’t wish death on any of the children, he hoped for his own sanity that this boy was one of the living.
“One last thing,” Peter said. “You remember the man you caught in the apartment building in New York before you discovered the DDNI’s body?”
That seemed like years ago to Quinn. “Al, right?”
“Al Barker,” Peter said. “I was able to have one more conversation with him before the Feds showed up. I brought a picture of Hardwick with me that I’d taken from the NSA website. When he looked at it, he identified him as Mr. Monroe.”
“Monroe?”
“The landlord who owned the building. Remember?”
“What the hell?” Quinn said. Hardwick had owned the building where Quinn had found the DDNI?
“I think we’ve been played,” Peter said. “I think we might have just done what the LP wanted us to do. But no one will believe me anymore. I’m out of the game. I just thought you should know so you can keep an eye on your back. Since you’re still in good standing, they’ll be concerned about you. You’re one of the few out there who know they exist and can cause them a problem.”
Quinn let it sink in for a moment. Even if they had been set up, there had been no choice. Quinn had to do what he’d done. The alternative would have been a disaster. “What are you going to do now?” he asked.
“Get drunk,” Peter said.
The line went silent for several seconds before it was replaced by the dead air of a disconnected call.
Nate sat behind the wheel of Quinn’s BMW, his brand-new prosthesis pressing down on the gas pedal. They were heading south toward L.A., having retrieved the now-dusty car from where they’d left it in the Alabama Hills.
“You still want me to take you straight to the airport?” Nate asked.
Quinn glanced at the clock on the radio. By the time they reached the city, there would be less than two hours before his flight.
“Yeah. Straight there.” Tonight he’d be sleeping in a hotel in Minneapolis, and tomorrow, after a long drive north, he’d be having dinner in his parents’ kitchen.
Quinn stared out the passenger window at the upsweep of the Sierra Nevadas. After a moment, he looked over at Nate.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said.
